


Just A Thing That Happened

by FarenMaddox



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FarenMaddox/pseuds/FarenMaddox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something happened to Kurogane.  It was a long time ago and he'd like to forget about it.  It's not that easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just A Thing That Happened

**Author's Note:**

> This was a de-non from the clampkink community on LiveJournal. The prompt is complicated [(you can read it here](http://clampkink.livejournal.com/608.html?thread=1149280#t1149280)) but to summarize it was a question of whether or not I could write a story about a person who was raped, and not write rape!fic. I Do Not Like rape!fic. I DO think the world could use a fic or two about a person who is strong enough to overcome when bad things happen to them.

 

Fifteen. You were only fifteen years old.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps and your sword flashes in the dark twilight. There’s a spray of blood and a man screams and it _breaks_ something in you to hear him scream because you never got to hear it the first time and his scream is shattering that brick wall you layered so solidly in your chest—

Fifteen, when these men first came at you. Got you drunk, told you that you were one of the men now. Waited till you were stupid with it. Bound your wrists to your ankles, bending your body back, and they wanted it to hurt but you were so young and flexible and that was the worst part of all, how being bound didn’t even hurt. They waited for the alcohol to wear off before they took you. Waited for you to be aware, so horribly aware of what was happening, before they stole the last tiny vestige of childhood you could still cling to after your home was destroyed.

These aren’t the same men, not exactly. You know that. But they wear their faces and they came at you in this dark alley (wanting your _money_ , the rational part of your brain tries to scream past the bloodlust, they said they wanted your _cash_ but the words are drowned in a roar of rage so strong you can barely remember who you are) and it was Souma who handled it before and you never got your chance and you _need to kill them_ —

You can’t. Tomoyo-hime put a curse on you. You can’t kill them and so you have to slow down and the minute you slow down they’ll have you. They have magic and when you hold back, when you only maim and don’t kill—one of them spreads his hands and a web of darkness pulses out at you. Your heart skitters right out of your chest and the pounding you feel inside is not your pulse but your terror. _They’re doing it again, it’s happening again, they’re pinning you down and they’re going to take away the only thing you have left._

You are not fifteen, and you are not drunk. You throw yourself to the side, duck and roll and come up in a crouch, shout out the name of your technique. Your sword sweeps out, because you are _strong_ now, strong so people can’t _take things from you_ and the weird, pulsing dark web shreds into tatters and the man with the spread-out hands stumbles back and is slammed into a brick wall. Souma took his hands, you remember. At least, the one who looked like him in Nihon. She cut off his fingers. One at a time. She brought you a finger to show you.

You can’t use your father’s technique on them, can’t force the words out of your rage-and-terror choked throat. It would sully it, somehow. Using it on _them_. But you’ve learned a lot, these past few years, and there are other techniques. Your sword flashes, catches the light of the gas lamps, and sometimes the dark blood on the blade flashes bright red.

The men who wanted your money are sobbing, broken, at your feet. They are not dead. You want to kill them and you put the tip of your sword to the throat of the man (it’s not him, not really him, but it _is_ ) who untied you, after, and _laughed_ until you broke his nose with the crown of your head. Your hand trembles, and the way he’s staring up at you, pleading for his life—feels so good. It feels too good, and you belong to Tomoyo-hime and she would be ashamed of you if she saw you smile to hear him beg, saw you shaking with the need to kill.

You sheathe your sword. You walk away. These men have already died for their crimes once, after all. When they swore you to silence, said they’d kill you for speaking . . . You wonder at their stupidity. It wasn’t hard for Souma to figure out. You could hardly hide the way you limped and the rope burns on your wrists, and they could hardly hide black eyes, a broken nose, a lower lip you bit so hard you ended up spitting a piece of it back at him. Three men. They disappeared, supposedly sent to shameful labour detail building bridges out in the sticks. But Souma brought back that finger.

Hearing them scream under your sword . . . You don’t know what to do with this. You thought it would feel good. And it did. But there’s a wall inside your chest, behind which all the things that happened that night were dammed up. You were not going to think about it. Not ever. Everything went behind that wall. It was as solid as the walls of Shirasagi castle. And then you saw the faces of these dead men and you heard them cry out for mercy, and something inside you just cracked wide open.

You feel fifteen again. The wall is breaking, and you feel flooded inside, swept away in a swirling muddy wave of blood and pain and fear and shame.

When it happened, there was nothing to do but build this wall and go on. You were alone and you had a job to do, and trying to think about what happened would have accomplished nothing. What were you supposed to do, talk about it? With who?

Nothing’s changed. All you can do is try to re-build the wall. What else is there?

 

* * *

 

  
The kid and the mage are making plans to go back to the library in the morning. You feel sick to your stomach when you recall that earlier today, a book in that library showed the kid more about your past than you ever wanted him to know. You don’t have secrets, not like the mage, but you have things you don’t talk about, not ever, and somehow they’re all spilling out in this world, someone slashing into you and letting you bleed out all over Recourt. You were already feeling sick from the leftover pounding adrenaline, and now your stomach clenches up tight. You have to get out of this room, and you have to hide yourself away from them and clean the blood from your blade and _never let them see_ —

“Kuro-chi, you’re late,” Fai scolds, looking up from the pages of a book that he and Syaoran are trying to puzzle out. “You had the princess worri— _what happened_?”

Dread pools in your gut with the bile. This guy . . . He sees things. He’s always hated that about you, the way you can look at him and sometimes know more than you’re supposed to. And now you find yourself panicking, because he can do it, too. Is it on your face, some distant memory for him to read?

“Not much,” you grind out. “Some morons tried to rob me on the way back. Here—”

You had all but forgotten the sack of groceries you were sent out to buy, having to double back to pick it up off the ground and scoop the fallen vegetables back into the bag, and you barely remembered you were carrying it. You wonder what’s wrong with you, why you feel so scatter-brained. It’s not like you. They’ll know something’s wrong. You thunk the supplies for dinner down on the table and fling your long black coat over the back of a chair.

“I need to clean up. Call me when the food’s ready.”

You’re not hungry, not in the least, but you’ll eat because that’s normal. A little blood never put you off your appetite before. They will know something is wrong if you refuse dinner over a supposedly small incident like beating up a few muggers.

And nothing _is_ wrong, not really, you tell yourself when you’re clawing at your tie, trying to loosen it because it’s choking you and you can’t breathe. You’re remembering something you put away, and suddenly you’re acting like you’re losing it, like something big happened. You feel stupid. It was just three men in an alley who wanted your money, and they didn’t get anything. That’s all.

You go into the bathroom and see someone’s blood smeared on your neck, and suddenly you’re vomiting into the sink. You’re so surprised by it that some spatters onto the mirror mounted above before you can duck your head, and when you’re done you slide down to your knees, resting your forehead against the cool white porcelain and wonder what’s happening to you. You need to get up, clean this up. _Get up get up get up_ and finally you force yourself to stand and clean off the mirror, washing away all evidence with cool water and splashing it on your face, shuddering and gasping in deep, calming breaths.

You beat those men in the alley, those men who only looked like the other men and weren’t the same. You’ve won. And you’re not fifteen, and you’re not even in the same _dimension_. You’ve got to get a grip.

The bathroom door opens, and for a moment you are simply so stunned by the intrusion of privacy without even a warning knock that you just stand there, water dripping from your bangs and your chin, staring at the mage.

You find your voice. “Get out, you idiot! Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

Fai closes the door behind him, squeezing you both into the same room and suddenly your breath is caught. It’s too small of a room for two large men and you feel a deep sense that you need to get out of this tiny, restricting room and away from cutting blue eyes that see too much—

“What happened, Kuro-sama?” Fai asks, crossing his arms in front of him. Then his nose crinkles up sharply. “You . . .” The corners of his eyes squint with amusement, even though his face shows vague distaste. “If you’re sick, you can just say so. You had me worried.”

You want ( _need_ ) to get the blood-spattered shirt off, and normally you wouldn’t care about undressing before the mage. He’s seen every inch of you in every way it’s possible to be seen by another person, and you’ve been changing clothes in your shared room even before you started doing that in Yama . . . But your hands are shaking and you don’t want him to see that.

“Kuro-sama . . .” His arms uncross, fall to his sides, and he begins to take a step forward. Your heart flutters wildly and you take a step back, away from him, hitting the backs of your legs against the sink that’s set too low (as they always are) and making those blue eyes narrow in concern. “Are you hurt? Where?”

He reaches out a hand and you can’t think, you just bat his hand away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re acting awfully strange, Kuro-tan,” he laughs, trying to dismiss this whole thing because that’s how he is. You usually get angry at his distancing trick because it’s so false and hypocritical, but today you’re grateful for it. “It’s like you’re afraid of me or something.”

Not afraid, _not afraid,_ and certainly not of him. “Tch. Don’t be an idiot,” you reply, but you waited too long and he is gaping at you now.

“Tell me what happened out there,” he demands, and now he will not let it go and you know it. The only way to end this would be to leave the room, to admit there is something wrong and you won’t tell him, to create a rift just when you have started to think you might be building a bridge that both of you might be changing just _enough_ (and admitting there is something wrong is something you just can’t do because it’s nothing) and you don’t want to lose this tiny fragile spark of trust you’ve been sheltering between you—

“Ah, it was just those guys that tried to rob me. I met them before in Nihon,” you say, sounding casual, easy, nonchalant.

“Enemies of yours?”

Fai must be thinking about running into copies of his own enemies, just now. Could be enough of a distraction to slip out of this moment.

“Yeah. They’re dead. I was just surprised to see them alive.”

“You’ve killed a lot of men, haven’t you, Kuro-sama.”

It kindles irritation in you, because he knows this. Irritation is good. Normal. Stable.

“So why do you remember these ones so well?”

You try to shrug it off, even now, even with those eyes cutting right through you. “I wasn’t the one who killed those ones, Souma did. I was just a kid, then.”

“Who were they?”

No, he will not let this go, now. You’ve behaved too strangely to let it pass by without remark, and you are (not happy, not soothed, not _craving this_ ) perhaps a little gratified by his open concern.

“They were just some of the other guards,” you say.

“Souma killed the other guards?” Fai asks skeptically.

Fine. Just get it over with. Just _say it_. It’s _nothing_.

“She said no one with honour would have raped me like that, and the palace could not tolerate such behaviour from them. Amaterasu publicly said that they had been caught thieving in the city and were being sent away to work elsewhere. But privately she told Souma to take care of it. I would have done it myself, but I didn’t even know they were gone until Souma came back.”

Wanted to do it now, here, wanted to punish those look-alikes for what their other selves had done, even though they’d already been punished once, had held back because of Tomoyo-hime’s curse, and perhaps even held back because they were already having trouble in this city and you didn’t want to make more for them, for the mage or the kid or the princess—but the stupid manjuu bun could fend for itself— you didn’t kill them. That was important, somehow. You dodged that dark net and defeated them and left them alive. You're still trying to work that out in your mind.

“Kuro—” There he stops, for a moment. Fai’s face is brittle, like rotten ice that you could fall through and be plunged into what’s underneath but is for the moment showing only its glossy frozen surface. “Did I hear you correctly? That these men raped you when you were a child?”

You stare into the mirror, able to look at Fai there but not actually able to face him. “Not a child, really, I was fifteen, but yeah. They got me drunk and tied me up. I remember them saying something about how it was normal, an apprentice and master thing, and I was too rebellious and shouldn‘t need to be held down. They were jealous, was all it was. That I was better than them, even at fifteen. It’s not like they accomplished anything. I wasn’t afraid of them.”

You weren’t afraid, aren’t afraid, it was just a stupid thing that happened and they’re dead now. Why did you throw up? Why can’t you just control your damned fingers and unbutton this stupid shirt and why can’t you figure out how to get this damned tie off?

Fai steps forward again, and this time he doesn’t stop when you retreat. He lays his hands very slowly on top of yours, and you stop moving.

“What?”

“Let me . . . Let me help.”

No. _No_. You don’t need _help_ but his fingers are already tugging the tie free, a rasp of red silk over the back of your neck and then the obstruction is gone. His face is set and carefully fixed on his task as he begins to undo the buttons of your blood-stained shirt. Each button slipping free seems to make the air easier to breathe, and you don’t know why. You don’t want him this close. But you _do_ , don’t you? This is—

The shirt slides free and he gently tugs it from your shoulders, throwing it carelessly into the claw-footed tub behind him. He takes a cloth in his hand, wets it with cool water, and slowly begins patting at the stray brown flakes of blood that are sticky on the backs of your hands and your neck.

“You left the muggers alive?” he asks after a moment.

“Yes.”

His hand lingers briefly on your bare shoulder, then he sets the cloth aside and takes your hand and quietly leads you from the bathroom and into the bedroom you’re sharing here. “I’ll be right back,” he says quietly. He leaves again, but you can hear him calling out to Syaoran and it must be Sakura as well because you can hear her voice— _if he tells the princess he’s a dead man_ , your mind hisses— “Have dinner without us, okay?”

A moment of startled silence, then they both begin to agree tentatively. But you’ve already stood up from the bed where he led you to sit, throwing on a clean shirt and calling out as you stomp down the hall.

“What the hell are you talking about, you idiot? I’m starving! Is it ready yet?”

He pins you down with an icy stare, but you are not going to do this, not lay there in some soft bed and let him act like he’s comforting you. You’re not a child, and you’re not injured. Why should you act any differently today than other days?

He backs down. Asks what he can do to help with dinner. And later, after everyone has gone to bed, you lay there beside him in the darkness, stiff and uncomfortable. Neither of you speaks. Your chest feels heavy. The silence and the darkness in the room are crushing you.

You roll over, too suddenly. Fai is sleeping in a shirt with short sleeves and soft pants. He claims they’re very comfortable, and he wears them to sleep no matter what world you come to. Except he’s not sleeping and his blue eyes cut through the darkness to you. You don’t speak. You push at his shirt, scrunching it upward and revealing the pale gleam of his skin. His hands come up to help you work the shirt over his head and off of him. His messy hair is splayed out over the pillow. He doesn’t speak, either. He lifts his hips silently when you tug at the waist of his pants, shimmying them off. He spreads his legs, lets you in.

You take him. Forceful. You don’t know why you want to pound into him like this when he’s being so kind, and you don’t know why he lets you do it, biting his lower lip and silent other than a few hissed breaths when it hurts.

You don’t even come. He turns his head to the side and winces when you thrust too hard, and you hate looking at that. Your hands are clenched on his narrow shoulders, sweat on your forehead, and you feel sick at the sight of the red marks your fingers are leaving in his pale skin. You go limp, still inside him. You pull out, and you turn away. His slender hand slides over your back, sympathetically. You resist the urge to turn and cut his fingers off.

Finally, you fall asleep.

  


* * *

 

  
It’s not until Infinity that things come back to this. The day after that, things fell apart because you were all swept into Tokyo and there was no time, for a while, to think about anything but giving Fai life. The other Syaoran. The wounds the princess took.

What happened to you wasn’t even important when you were fifteen, much less when such things as these are taking place. And Fai doesn’t care any more.

It doesn’t hurt, that’s what you think. Well, it hurts that he doesn’t care about anything, because you thought, really believed there for a minute in Recourt, that he was changing and learning to care, but it’s not like it hurts _more_ because of what he learned about you in that world. It’s not important at all.

But that topic comes back in Infinity. Because of the way your heart pounds there, and your blood beats faster, and he can always tell. He hears your blood singing in his ears, now, late at night when you wake up in a cold sweat, dreaming of things that you had forgotten. It makes him thirsty. You can feel his hunger throbbing darkly on the other side of the room. Hunger stirred by panting nightmares of pain and helplessness.

You hate this Infinity world even more than Tokyo, you think.

One night, you are angry (don’t even know why) and go to your room without so much as offering to feed him, even though his eye has gone sharp and watchful and you know he’s hungry. You’re still dressed in tournament clothes, stretched out on the bed pretending to read when Fai comes in and closes the door. His long-fingered hands linger there, splayed out against the stained wood. He’s looking at you with his hungry eye and your heart squeezes up tight in your throat.

“You didn’t even ask.”

“What’s it matter? You hate it anyway.”

He approaches the bed, and you feel like you’re about to suffocate. Your eyes are caught on the muscles sliding beneath his skin, almost-but-not-really out of sight beneath that revealing black shirt. Something odd flashes over his face—you wait quietly, not flinching— he grabs that collar you wear and jerks you forward— your heart skips a beat—

“You’re supposed to be my prey,” he whispers, and sharp claws prick in a line across your throat.

Your heart pounds, your blood roars in your ears, and you swallow thickly. You just went hard as a rock, and he can feel you pressing against his thigh as he kneels over you on the bed. His eye widens in surprise, but he experiments. One hand grips your chess collar, and the other slides down your arm, gripping your wrist, pinning it behind you.

“Do you . . . like this?” he hisses.

Damn him, _damn_ Fai and his cutting gaze and damn your blood singing to him, and the shudder that rolls down your spine and sends heat right into your groin. The touch of his mouth to your wrist is all the contact you’ve had since he woke up as a vampire, and this is the worst torture imaginable. You hate each other right now, but you _want him_ and he’s on top of you and you want him to bear you down and take you.

You hate this. You want to fling him away from you, but he’s holding you down, straddling you, has a hold of your collar and you _want him_ no matter what, in any way and every way and the heat pooling and twisting inside you says _especially this way_ —

“After what you told me . . . You _like this_?"

He sounds horrified. Disgusted, maybe. He yanks his hands off of you, stands up retracts his fangs and claws so quickly that you could almost believe they simply disappeared, but you can’t help seeing that he too is stiff and hard right now, and you almost— _almost_ get up and grab him by _his_ collar and push him down onto the bed. But you don’t. Because you’d rather have him do it to you and the idea clearly does not appeal to him.

During the rest of your time in Infinity, you drain blood into a cup and let him drink from that. You don’t touch each other at all.

 

* * *

  


  
When you wake up in Nihon and he’s there and punches you, it feels so good. Like things are getting back to normal, but more than that. There’s a new normal emerging, with a different Fai and maybe a different you. It’s good, that first day. Everything’s so good and brilliant and beautiful that you walk around with a catch in your throat and actual tears constantly threatening to well up. (Well, less walking on your part and more hobbling and laying down at frequent intervals.)

At first you can allow Fai’s solicitous care with you. It’s kind of nice for a couple of days. New and interesting to see this softer side of him, and your grievous physical injuries are enough of an excuse to curl together on a futon for hours at a time, doing nothing but softly touching his hair and his face and talking with him quietly. There is a tiny part of you that cringes at this weakness, but that part of you is tired right now and is resting here in the arms of your lover.

When he punches you in Clow Country, angry that you didn’t tell him about the bleeding, that’s when you begin to wonder just what he thinks you are. You’re not crippled and you’re still perfectly capable of seeing to your own problems. His rebuke leaves a hint of blood from a cut lip, and it tastes sharply of your suspicion that he’s trying to coddle you. The couple of times you’ve had sex since cutting off your arm have been slow, sweet, easy, so good that you feel filled up with satisfaction, topped off like you used to top your racers off with fuel in Piffle.

What would Fai do if you wanted him quick and rough and dirty, like furtive sex in a tent in Yama? There’s no time now to test it out. But you grab his arm before he can walk away, before he can change the subject to the time loop you’re caught in.

“Hey. I’m not some weakling.”

“I know,” he says placidly.

“Don’t treat me like one.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he laughs.

 

* * *

 

  
It’s when everything is over, and you have some time to spend in Clow simply recovering, that things finally come to a head.

With no agenda but to wait and relax and heal your wounds, you and Fai find lots of time to spend in bed. It’s not good. Well, it’s _good_ , because Fai is thrusting up between your long lean thighs, his face flushed and his mouth open and you’re both slick with sweat from the heat of this desert country, but it’s not what you want.

You try to liven things up one day by grabbing him while he’s walking, shoving him hard into an alcove covered by a huge swath of drapery, covering his protesting mouth with yours. You did this once in Outo, you think, shoving him into the supply pantry for his café, and he came so hard that you had to hold him up. But now he slithers out of your grip.

“This is hardly the place, Kuro-sama,” he laughs.

_That’s the point_ , you think, but he’s walking away so you chase him down.

“What’s with you?” you snap. “You don’t like variety now or something?”

His eyes are bright on you and he doesn’t say anything. Your mouth hangs agape as you realize what this is truly about.

“I shouldn’t have even _told_ you.”

“I just don’t want to do anything that would . . . Trigger a flashback or something.”

You hear an impatient breath hissing out of you and a feeling of being _trapped_ creeps up on you. You don’t want to talk about this. Fai’s concern is causing a cramp in your gut that reminds you more of food poisoning than an emotional state.

“Don’t. Don’t start doing this. I don’t want you to act like I’m— we’ve been having sex forever, and you didn’t even know at first—”

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispers, sliding closer to you and attempting to draw your attention to the fact that you’re in an open, echoing hallway that, while empty, is not entirely private. “Never again.”

“You won’t,” you say more quietly, and even though he’s trying to be nice you still feel sick and helpless and you want to wring his neck. “I don’t want to talk about this ever again, do you understand? It’s just a thing that happened a long time ago. It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me,” is his answer, probably thinking he’s _clever_ for dodging any question of how it affects you and paying no attention to how bad you want to punch him in the face—

Well, this wouldn’t be the first time. You let loose with a right hook to his jaw that knocks him on his skinny ass and sends him sliding across the sun-warmed tile floor.

“I _know_ you won’t hurt me,” you seethe. “I trust you, you idiot. I know you think I’m sick or something for what happened in Infinity—”

“Not sick,” he says quietly, rising to his feet again. “I don’t think that at all. It just worried me. I thought if you could have someone to talk to, and deal with it instead of shoving it all away, then you wouldn’t be interested in that.”

“I don’t need to deal with it.”

You’re at the door to your room now, and you’re tempted to slam the door in his face and shut him out of it and make him find someplace else to sleep tonight. But you both slip inside and close the door to finish this argument without the possibility of being overheard.

“It wasn’t ‘just a thing that happened’ Kurogane,” he says, his voice as sharp as his vampire claws. “It was rape. It wasn’t your fault, and it wasn’t because you were weak—”

“Shut _up_ ,” you snarl, and you swing to hit him again, but he dodges it seemingly without effort.

“No, you hear this. You were a fifteen year old boy. Some men tricked you and tied you up. You were raped. It was awful. It wasn’t just some thing to shove aside and pretend never happened. They did something horrible to you. Deal with that.”

“I— no—” you gasp. “It wasn’t— it was nothing—”

“It wasn’t your fault, Kuro-sama,” he says quietly, a gentle hand on your arm. You can’t breathe or think or see and he’s right you were raped and it was awful and Souma killed them for you but she wasn’t your mother and you couldn’t put your face down in her lap and sob like you wanted to because you were only a boy and you needed— you don’t know _what_ you needed then or even what you need _now_ , but Fai is pulling you over to your huge bed with the soft drapes and he’s holding onto you because you’re shaking and you think maybe all you need is _this_. Just this, forever, just him and you and a soft bed.

You can’t breathe. Something in your throat cracks and you wonder if you’re bleeding and you don’t know if you cried but you do know you fell asleep there with him because you’re still in his arms when you wake up.

 

* * *

 

“It’s been a while since we did anything fun,” Fai says the minute you step in the door.

You blink in shock. The only thing he’s wearing is a pair of leather pants, hugging along the curve of his butt and pooling in a soft fold on top of his slender bare feet.

“So I told Syaoran about a book at the library he really needs to find. Unfortunately I don’t think it actually exists in this world.”

Your eyes flicker to a weird thing that wasn’t there when you left the house today. There’s a large metal hook screwed into the wall near the ceiling, just above Fai’s head. Your mind is more caught by the expanse of creamy skin that has been laid bare apparently for your pleasure. You can ask about the weird metal hook later.

Fai slinks up to you, slides his leg around yours. You reach out and grab hold of his hips, perfectly presented by the leather hanging precariously from them. With a flash of movement, he grabs your wrists and you hear a strange ratcheting noise and you blink in surprise and look down and you are now wearing _handcuffs_ —

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a very long time,” he purrs. He pushes you back, catty and grabby and pushy and purring, and he slides his hands up your arms, lifting them over your head and it hits you in the gut, the knowledge, before your brain actually starts thinking— the chain of the handcuffs is slipped over the hook. Your arms are caught above your head.

“It’s too bad that’s such an uncomfortable position,” he murmurs. “This is going to take quite some time.”

His eyes flash yellow and he rips your shirt open with one quick jerk, the fabric straining painfully on your shoulders before he starts to peel it away. His long claws begin to slide out. He presses them to your chest and drags them slowly down. Not hard enough to draw blood, just hard enough to leave red lines in your skin.

Then for a minute, he breaks. He looks up at you with a grin that is pure idiot mage. And you find yourself grinning back.

“Happy birthday, Kuro-pinta,” he chirps. Then he slowly goes to his knees and slowly unbuttons your pants and _slowly_ slides them down your legs. He looks at your twitching cock and lays a single fingertip to the head of it. You mutter and shift your legs and tell him to hurry up.

His hand squeezes you too hard and you scowl at him.

“I didn’t tell you to move,” he says silkily. He rises slowly to his feet and his hands slide around your neck, and you feel something going around your throat, pressing down. A collar. He tugs on it sharply. “You only move when I tell you, understand?”

Oh, yes. Yes, you understand. Your thighs are already trembling. You’ll be proud of yourself if you last ten minutes without begging.

He scrapes his teeth over your throat. He doesn’t bite down and he never fed from your throat anyway, but you can still imagine what it would feel like, the sharp pain of his teeth sliding in. His breath is hot on the joining of your shoulder and neck. You’re shivering with anticipation but the glow of his eyes promises that he hasn’t even begun.

You’re begging by five minutes. Ten minutes in, and you can’t remember how to speak. He spreads your legs wide and slides in between them and his hands are on the collar while he thrusts into you, and it’s not until he’s finished, panting and flushed and satisfied, that he finally deigns to notice that you are simply laying on the wall not caring about the handcuffs digging into the skin on your wrists (which were already covered in scar tissue from a hundred blood-letting cuts) and have been reduced to randomly-thrusting incoherency.

He turns you, kneels down and takes you into his mouth. You groan and there’s maybe a full minute before you’re coming harder than you’ve ever come in your life, enough to make Fai gag and Fai _never_ gags and you think you might have blacked out at that point because you don’t remember the transition from Fai trying to swallow, to Fai wrapping his arms around you and making you taste your seed on his lips. He unhooks you after that kiss, and has to help you to the bed.

“Told you,” you mumble as he gently lets you down. “Told you I’d like it.”

He lets out a hoarse chuckle and lets you drag him down beside you. “That you did.”

“Good birthday,” you manage to say.

“You’re really okay?” he asks, pushing up on his elbows to hover over you. “It wasn’t . . .?”

Your face must be answer enough, because he stretches himself over your chest with a moan of pained satisfaction. You’re both asleep before you can find the energy to get up and turn out the light.

 

 


End file.
